


Not A Junkie

by EyeofMazikeen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Light BDSM, M/M, Mentions of Johnlock - Freeform, Sheriarty - Freeform, Strong Language, mentions of drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-28
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-16 09:54:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/860796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EyeofMazikeen/pseuds/EyeofMazikeen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock know's he's a hopeless addict. But a consulting detective can still pretend, can't he? This is a Sheriarty / Jimlock smut fic. Also contains implied Johnlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not A Junkie

**Author's Note:**

> Standard Disclaimer: As much as I would like to claim responsibility for these characters, all rights go to their respective creators (Dolye, BBC, etc.) This certainly isn't for profit so please please don't sue me.
> 
> In the following paragraphs you will find hot man on man action. If that's not your bag, that's cool but you might want to skip this fic. Also, there's a light BDSM warning, so if that bothers you, please reconsider. I'd hate to be unintentionally responsible for someone's nervous breakdown.
> 
> Finally, this story was inspired by the song 'Junkie' by Poe, off her amazing album Hello. So if you want some background reading music I highly recommend you seek it out via YouTube.

 

He'd always been good at hiding in plain sight, going unnoticed. The key to disguise and all that. It had been his cloak for as long as he can remember; something to wrap around himself when the word became too overwhelmingly inane. When people revealed themselves to be cretinous beyond description he could always just adopt everyone else's vacant expression and fade into the crowd. Eventually it became necessary for the Work, because people couldn't be arsed to tell the truth or solve their own problems. But no matter what it was always a part of him, the banal camouflage that he could put on and take off at will.

It had never once occurred to Sherlock that he'd be using his talents for obfuscation for something quite like this. He'd chosen his costume carefully; jeans and a T-shirt with some pithy saying, a waist length leather jacket, and a pair of sunglasses. The outfit felt uncomfortable, like a second skin he itched shed. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but the suits and coat were armor. His tendency to be a 'smart' dresser was based off a childhood barb that Mycroft had thrown at him; another testament to his ability to take the taunts of others and work them seamlessly into his persona. Every little thing that people hated about him he wore like a badge for all to see; if they were going to hate him at least they'd do so by his choice.

Not once did he ever think he'd meet someone who understood. Really understood. Not sympathized, like John (oh poor, sweet John), but truly had experienced the level of hostility that was a part of his daily life. They had different ways of dealing with it to be sure, but their asymmetry was what allowed them to work, somehow. Alike enough to truly understand each other, but dissimilar enough to still be captivating. And that bastard knew it; held his fascination with the other man against him like a knife to his throat.

Every. Fucking. Time. That prick made him be the one to ask.

So there he was, on the tube, trying desperately to blend in while his insides practically melted. Long fingers palmed his mobile, flicking over the screen to re-read the last set of messages.

_Bored. You? - SH_

_Never! You're not trying hard enough to entertain yourself, dearest. - JM_

_It's your fault. You haven't been up to anything lately. Are you doing this on purpose? - SH_

_Maaaaaaaybe. - JM_

_Bastard. - SH_

_Is it working? - JM_

_Or are you just texting me because you miss me so terribly much? - JM_

_What do you think? - SH_

_I think I'm in the middle of a business dinner, Detective. So unless it's truly important, I'll be needing to let you go. - JM_

_It's in your best interest too. Once I finish this meal I'll do something so dastardly that you won't be bored for weeks. - JM_

_Fuck you, Jim. - SH_

_Now we're getting somewhere! Is that a request? An offer? - JM_

_A fantasy? - JM_

_Where are you? - SH_

_Oh, that would be telling. No sir! You want me, you can come and get me big boy. - JM_

13 minutes later...

_No? Given up, have we? Or perhaps you're just slow today? - JM_

9 minutes later...

_Fine. I'll give you a clue. You loooooove my clues. I'll send you a picture of my dessert. That should be enough. - JM_

_Doesn't it look absolutely mouthwatering? - JM_

17 minutes later...

_Marco! - JM_

3 minutes later

_Now you're being intentionally dull. I have other ways of entertaining myself. Do you? - JM_

_You have twenty minutes. - JM_

And that was the end of that. As much as he wanted to stop, he was caught up in the gravity of Jim Moriarty. That invisible connection between them dragged him along down the track to this stupid, cheap hotel in this stupid, cheap part of town. The room's lock wasn't even that hard to pick, damnit. It was like that bastard was trying to make him as bored as possible before they finally met.

The room was dark and empty. Sherlock had only used 18 of his allotted 20 minutes. Jim would be along in two more, precise as ever. Fuck that bastard for making him wait. Fuck him for always making Sherlock be the one to initiate contact. And.. just... well... fuck Jim. Fuck those amazingly clever lips. Fuck those talented fingers and the way that the consulting criminal knew how to use them. Anger and lust. Hunger and hatred. It was Moriarty all over, swimming through his veins and clouding his thoughts. The sensation was despicably delicious.

The strange cocktail of feelings coiled up in his stomach and spread through his veins like fire. God, this was better than any drug he had ever tried; infinitely more dangerous and exhilarating. Jim waltzed him across a knife's edge. The wrongness of it all made his fingertips tingle and his blood start to flow lower. Fuck. The psychopath wasn't even in the room with him and already his costume jeans were a little too tight.

As if on cue, the room lock clicked and his least (Most? Least. Most.) favorite diminutive brunette danced into the room. His dark eyes looked to hold equal measures of amusement and predatory hunger.

"Well, If it isn't Sherlock Holmes. Fancy meeting you here."

f a man uncomfortably seated on the cheap bedspread. Sherlock blushed oh so slightly, the palest pink creeping along those viciously lovely cheekbones, but he at least managed not to shift his position. The whistle had become something of a customary greeting between the two; once Jim had gotten a reaction out of him the first time he never stopped trying. It normally didn't work; Sherlock had a better hold over the physical manifestations of his emotions since this whole twisted affair started, but the dark haired man had interrupted him in a moment of salacious introspection.

Blue eyes flickered over the form of the man standing in the doorway. Sherlock was surprised to see how similar their outfits were. Tight, dark jeans sat comfortably under a black T-Shirt that had "I am not a terrorist, please don't arrest me." graffitied across the chest.

Fucking Westwood. Even when Jim was dressed down, he was dressed in the very best. Sherlock allowed one corner of his mouth to twitch in amusement; as much as it galled him to admit it the sheer audacity of the other man was charming in a way. Reciprocating the grin, Jim compressed his lips for a moment before allowing a truly frightening smile settle there.

"So, what brings you to this neck of the woods, Detective?" God that lilt was infuriating. It was like the bastard stressed all the wrong syllables in all the wrong ways just to set Sherlock on edge. In answer to the question, he simply leveled the smaller man with one of his flattest gazes.

"Oh," those pink lips affected a fake pout, and Jim leaned himself up against the wall next to the door. "Dear me. Is poor Sherlock unamused? Well, I have plenty of better things to do with my time, then. I don't need to be spending it with someone who doesn't appreciate my sense of humor." Dark eyes flickered against Sherlock's form and the detective swore he could feel Moriarty peeling back layers and layers of him until only his naked insides remained. A not-unpleasant chill ran down his spine, but he refused to speak. He knew why he was there, knew what he needed, but he'd be damned if he gave in a second sooner than was absolutely necessary.

As sudden as a snake's strike, Moriarty crossed the room until he stood right before the taller man. Leaning in, he moved his wicked mouth close to Sherlock's, but never actually allowed their lips to touch. Jim held the position, savoring the way that those intense blue eyes fluttered closed and that pale throat constricted as it tried to crush a lustful moan before it escaped those perfect lips.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, Sher-lock," he murmured, allowing his breath to ghost against the taller man's full lips. "Must we always play these little games?" When Moriarty received no response he climbed up onto the bed to straddle the detective's lap, moving that villainous mouth to the shell of Sherlock's ear.

"You know you're going to give in sooner or later," the dark haired man crooned, allowing his mouth to caress the very edge of the other man's earlobe. "Just tell Daddy what you want. Then we can get this show on the road."

Sherlock let his eyes slide closed again, trying desperately to grasp at the last fading tendrils of his sanity before they disappeared completely into the lusty haze of his mind.  _Psychopath. Criminal. Dangerous. Murderer._ Thinking of the awful things that Moriarty had done, would continue to do, should have made him run cold. Should have made him push the smaller man off his lap and choke the life out of him right there on the stained carpeting. Instead, he let his broad hands wander to the small of Jim's back, fingers moving in slight circles. Maybe the physical touch would be enough. Maybe this would be the one fucking time that the criminal didn't make him say it.

"Nicely done Sherlock, but you know what I need," Moriarty's voice was a dark purr, and he rotated his hips slightly, grinding himself against the taller man's fly. "Come now, it's not all that bad, is it?" A shrill giggle followed, and he nipped at the curve of the detective's ear. "Well, of course it is. But that's why you love it so much, isn't it? C'mon Sherlock. Come be bad with me. Tell me what you want."

Finally, Sherlock allowed the last of his reservations to fade into the background. He couldn't think of anything else but the criminal's pale skin against his; not with Jim moving like that on his lap, nibbling at his ear.

"You." His baritone rumbled through the room, low and dark with the last of his shame.

"I can't hear yoooo~ou..." The smaller man singsonged softly into his ear. "Tell me, Sherlock. What ex-ac-tly is it that you crave?" He pulled back slightly, and let one hand trail down the curve of Sherlock's neck and shoulder before tracing it lower, finally coming to rest against the growing bulge in his denim. In response Sherlock's hips involuntarily bucked up into that wicked palm and Jim laughed, his voice rich with satisfaction.

"Your body certainly has no problem telling me. Why don't you just let that over-complicated mind of yours follow suit?" Moriarty ground the flat of his palm against Sherlock's hardening length, applying just the right amount of pressure; almost, but not quite painful. "Mmhmm. Suck it up, Sherlock. Tell your pathetic excuse for a conscience to shut the fuck up, and BEG." Jim growled the last word, and it was Sherlock's undoing. It was impossible not to give in to this man, who knew how to read him in the same way that he himself could read everyone else around him.

"God Jim. Ah! Please. Please... let me fuck you." God. Saying it just felt. So. Fucking. Good. Sherlock let his head roll back on his sculpted shoulders, exposing his throat completely to Moriarty. Obligingly, his partner set his mouth to work, teeth and tongue tracing over the blue latticework of veins that lay underneath his pale, satin skin.

Moriarty coursed through those veins; just as potent as anything Sherlock had ever injected himself with. He was out of control, and he knew it. And just like every other high, like every other addiction he had ever indulged in, he gave himself over to it completely; letting it wash away all the noise in his mind until only the single focal point of craving remained.

Addiction; the only word available to the detective to describe this strange sensation creeping through him as Jim viciously bit at his throat, then soothed the sore spot with tender brushes of his lips. The criminal was his latest addiction, and it was worse than all the others. At least with cocaine, which had previously been the worst by far of his recreational substances, he felt secure in the thought that his will was greater than his need. As Moriarty traced that silver tongue down his neck to his collarbone, biting and sucking, Sherlock knew he could do nothing to make himself stop wanting the other man's mouth on his. His want completely eclipsed his determination when it came to James Moriarty.

"Yes. God yes, Jim." The consulting detective barely recognized his own voice, gravelly and rough with need. He started to tug at the hem of Moriarty's too-clever shirt, needing to feel skin against skin. The smaller man obliged and broke his embrace on Sherlock's collarbone so he could strip his shirt off, tossing it in the corner of the room. But before Sherlock could pull the now-shirtless Jim back down on top of him, the criminal placed one fine boned hand in the middle of the detective's chest and pushed him back onto the mattress.

Jim sat above him now, still straddling his waist, looking down at him with those dark, mad eyes of his. Those incorrigible fingers flickered over Sherlock's still clothed chest, dancing to some mad rhythm that only Moriarty could hear, until they reached the hem. For a moment, time froze as Moriarty used his free hand to reach behind him, procuring a switchblade from his back jeans pocket. He flicked it open, casting a loving gaze at the blade before holding it between thumb and forefinger, playfully waggling it at the taller man trapped beneath him. Jerking suddenly, Sherlock nearly sat bolt upright but Jim's firm hand on his chest effortlessly held him in place.

"Ah-ah darling! Do be still. I'm not a bad hand at this, but squirming certainly won't help any." And with that he slipped the blade underneath the hem of Sherlock's t-shirt, tracing the flat of the blade against his stomach. God. Only a fucking madman could make a bared blade against flesh feel that good. Only a man of equivalent madness could enjoy it.

After a few sensual passes back and forth, Moriarty twisted his wrist, allowing the sharp blade to tear through the thin fabric. One flick of a slender wrist closed the blade up, and the criminal gave it a casual toss behind him, out of reach. Long fingered hands grabbed two fistfuls of Sherlock's shirt and tore in opposite directions. A ripping noise resounded through the room, and the two halves of his shirt fell to his sides, exposing his marble pale chest.

"Delightful!" Jim's voice was melodious and hypnotic, full of song and delight as he eyed his prize. Then, with another few short thrusts of his hips to make sure that Sherlock was still at attention, he traced his long fingered hands up the pale torso beneath him. Sharp fingernails traced over elegant, curved ribs. Little pink trails welled up in their wake, and Sherlock knew that he'd still bear the marks tomorrow. Suddenly, it occurred to Sherlock that he was quite uncertain what he was going to wear home when he had finally gotten his fix. Jim must have noticed (of course he did, stupid stupid stupid! Jim noticed everything.) because his black eyes narrowed, and one hand left its leisurely pass up Sherlock's chest to capture his chin in a viselike grip.

"Pay. Attention. Sherlock." The smaller man snapped, and for a moment Sherlock read something beyond madness in those eyes. Fire, passion, complete consumption of self? Jealousy? Moriarty was a possessive lover to be sure, and more than dangerous when he felt slighted. The consulting criminal cocked his head, considering his partner's blue eyes as they read him.

"You're thinking of home," Moriarty spat, voice full of rancor. He tightened his grip on Sherlock's chin, nails digging into the soft skin to the point of pleasureless pain. Those black eyes had gone completely wild, and Sherlock felt the familiar adrenaline rush course through him as his body prepared itself to fight. Feeling the slight change in the man below him, Moriarty shifted his weight again, spreading his legs wider and grinding himself against Sherlock to remind the other man of exactly why he was there.

"Were you thinking of that pet of yours?" God Jim loved to talk, and it genuinely wonderful that Sherlock didn't have to carry the conversation for once. "He's sweet, darling. But he could never make you feel like this. He's a man of danger, for sure. But he's not dangerousssssss." Jim let his voice slip into the predatory hiss that he knew sent shudders through Sherlock's body and mind.

"You like dangerous, don't you?" Another rock of those hips and Sherlock was about ready to burst. God, Jim could get him off just by talking, and the delightful friction that the smaller man produced wasn't helpful in that regard. That fucking madman knew exactly what to say in what tones to send the words singing right to Sherlock's groin.

"You love it that somebody finally has power over you. You love that I'm more than willing to abuse it." At those words, Sherlock's hips involuntarily bucked up against Jim's, seeking more contact. Laughing, the criminal canted his hips backward at exactly the same time, denying the man beneath him the extra contact. A wanton groan escaped Sherlock's lips, and Moriarty chuckled darkly.

"Well then, I have a new game for us to play. You'll quite like it, I believe." Jim bent over, drawing his face as close to the taller man's as he could manage. His dark gaze pierced through Sherlock's aquamarine, pupils contracting in fear. New games were never good. But then again, that was part of the high; knowing at any minute the madman atop him could flip completely and he'd be in real, true danger.

Moriarty leaned his lips down to Sherlock's, whispering against them. "And this is what we're going to do, loverboy..." he crooned, running one finger down the side of Sherlock's face.

"You're going to do every single thing I tell you to the best of your considerable abilities. You're going to make me cum harder than I ever have. And if you don't? If I find your performance lacking?" One elegant hand wound around behind his back, and Jim produced a sleek black phone from yet another pocket. He flicked it on and turned the screen towards Sherlock so the other man could see. A flurry of images passed by on the screen. The first picture showed consulting detective and Moriarty in some dark alley; Jim's legs wrapped around his waist, teeth buried in his throat.

In another, Sherlock's dark hair fanned about his face, his eyes closed in breathless pleasure with Jim's head buried between his thighs. The next showed Sherlock tied to a bed (somewhere he only dimly remembered), naked except for a ball gag in his mouth. At the end of the bed, Moriarty sat testing a riding crop against his palm. In the final picture, Jim had the taller man's hands pinned above his head, lithe body stretched to his limits as he both subdued and rode Sherlock as hard as he could. It took a moment for the consulting detective to place the location, and when he did he went cold with fear. It was the edge of The Pool, where just a few days prior to their intimate liaison the madman fucking him senseless had strapped explosives to his best friend as his equivalent of a "cordial introduction".

"I've been keeping mementos, Sherlock. You can't expect one can't expect to fuck someone as absolutely gorgeous as yourself without taking a few souvenirs, right?" Dark eyes looked over the detective's face, taking in the barely suppressed horror with a mixture of lust and delight. "You're soooooo unwilling to call, and I do need something to get me through all those lonely nights. The way you moan? You've positively RUINED me to porn, darling." An odious smile crept over those pursed pink lips and Moriarty gloated over him.

"So. To reiterate," the dark haired madman purred. "Fuck me like I've never been fucked before, Sherlock, or I'll make sure these pictures find their way to your darling doctor." Dark eyes gazed into his, as Sherlock's mind spun desperately, trying to think of a solution that wouldn't involve poor John knowing that he fucked his mortal enemy where they had both very nearly been killed.

"Oh Sherlock, really! I procured this little surprise to motivate you to focus solely on ME. Do be a dear and come back to me now," Jim trilled, releasing his grip on Sherlock's chin and slapping him lightly on each cheek with the offending phone.

"Now, my detective. Let's play." And with that, Moriarty pressed forward, devouring Sherlock's cupid bow mouth with a heated kiss. Moaning into the embrace, Sherlock gave in completely; surrendering his mind to nothing but thoughts of pleasing the criminal atop him.

Sherlock arched his lithe torso up into Jim, relishing in the feel of the other man's bare chest against his. Moriarty half chuckled, half growled before placing his hands on the consulting detective's hips. Those slender but powerful fingers forced him back into the mattress without once necessitating a break in their kiss.

Moriarty pulled out of their embrace and smiled, almost genuinely, as he watched the last of Sherlock's distraction fade from his cerulean eyes. "That's a good start," he drawled, leaning over to kiss the consulting detective again, pressing his body fully against the dark haired sleuth's.

Light nips against the taller man's full lower lip were punctuated with deep sweeps of Jim's tongue into the hot cavern of his mouth. The exploration was thorough, and left Sherlock gasping into the other man's mouth as the criminal positively fucked him senselss with his tongue. A pleasant fog started to crawl across the detective's overactive mind as he let Jim plunder him; stealing all his breath away and leaving nothing but tingling pleasure in return.

Spinning in the embrace, Sherlock secretly wished he could blame all this on Jim and the uncanny power the madman held over him. In some strange way, he knew Jim felt the same; wishing that he could pin this entire strange and secret relationship solely on Sherlock. He could feel the accusation with every sweep of the criminal's tongue, heard the unspoken "This is your fault" every time their teeth collided. God, if only it were that simple. Blame and the assuagement of guilt it provided was easy when you were stupidly unaware of your own intentions. It was a quality nether genius had been accused of in their lives. All that left was for them to punish each other for wanting it so badly.

Finally, the madman released his lock on Sherlock's lips, and air flooded back into his lungs. Sparks of sensation made every nerve in him hum in delight as Jim ground his hips against the detective's, rubbing their still-clothed erections against one another. With a desperation only Moriarty could make him feel, he twined his violinist's fingers between them, working the criminal's fly. Moriarty swatted them away, using the other man's delicate wrists to pin the detective's hands back down to his sides.

"All talk, Jim?" he managed to gasp out between thrusts of the smaller man's hips against his own. "Are we going to fuck, or are you just going to dry hump me for the rest of the evening?" Sherlock's already deep baritone was throaty with want.

"Oh~ho! Now the bite comes out. You've been so silent all night. I was afraid I had knocked all the words right out of you, shamus." Blue eyes rolled violently at the despised nickname.

"I hate it, aaaah.. when you... mmph... call me that." As hard as the detective tried to control them, moans still crept into every part of his dialogue as Jim continued his slow but heated grind against him. "Too.. ngaaah... much like.. gah... your name for... aaaah! Comfort."

"Do something about it then, shamus." Moriarty's voice crackled with barely contained glee. Needing no further invitation, Sherlock took his hands from their passive positions at his side and grabbed the smaller man's shoulders, rolling them both until they tumbled off the bed onto the floor. Jim's head hit the thin carpeting with a crack, but the smaller man could barely contain his delighted laughter. Before the criminal could open his mouth, Sherlock pressed his hand against it, eliciting a startled yelp from the man below him.

"Oh, do shut the fuck up Jim. Anytime. Really." He could feel teeth against his palm as the criminal's mouth split into a cheshire grin, but the smaller man remained silent. Taking that as assent to silence Sherlock moved his hand, letting deft fingers trail down the marble-pale chest beneath him. Lithe digits traced down Moriarty's fine collarbones, detouring to trace small circles around his hardening nipples, ghosting next to but never quite touching them. An appreciative growl rose in the smaller man's throat, but he held his tongue. Surprising, that. James Moriarty wasn't known for his restraint.

Before the other man could break the illusion of Sherlock being in control, he lowered his mouth to one pert, pink bud. He let his lips brush over it, teasing the risen nub of flesh with the very tip of his tongue oh so tenderly. Sherlock knew how much the consulting criminal hated anything gentle. Moriarty answered the gesture with a wanton buck of his hips as the consulting detective had expected, and in response he bit down hard on the criminal's erect nipple. The shock of the sudden pain made Jim's whole body stiffen beneath him before it shuddered and relaxed, a satisfied hiss escaping his lips.

Taking advantage of his partner's stunned state, Sherlock traced his tongue down the criminal's abdomen, tracing the elegant trail of dark hair that lead down to the waistband of his jeans. Smiling up at Moriarty, a wicked light glinting in his aquamarine eyes, Sherlock proceeded to undo both the button and zip using only his mouth. Jim tried to buck up into the motion of Sherlock's mouth, but long fingered hands secured his hips in place and the smaller man let loose a throaty growl in protest. Once the fastening was loosened, Sherlock grabbed the waistband and stripped the smaller man of both jeans and pants in one sweeping motion.

The criminal beneath him gave a suggestive stretch, toeing off his shoes and socks, quirking an eyebrow at Sherlock as if to imply that he had missed something. Completely naked beneath him, Moriarty lost none of his imposing presence.

"Quelle est la prochaine Sherlock? Faites vite. Ma patience a ses limites."* Goddamn. It was just like the bastard to mouth off at him in French. He could feel each syllable travel straight through his ears, pumping through his heart before settling in his groin like wildfire. The criminal beneath him noticed as the blue irises in the eyes above him narrowed to slivers as those black pupils blew wide with lust. An appreciative, twisted little smile crossed his lips, yet before Jim could gain the verbal upper hand again, Sherlock took the head of the swollen member in front of him into his mouth.

Moriarty's taste was unsurprisingly bittersweet, and Sherlock pulled back to run his tongue across the slit at the very tip. God, the criminal was leaking his desire; a torrent precum slicking his hardened cock. At least the detective had tangible proof that he wasn't the only one coming unraveled. With one elegant motion, he took the whole of the criminal's length into his mouth, spreading the natural lubricant down to the root of his aching shaft.

To his credit, the smaller man recovered from the waves of pleasure that wracked him rather quickly. Even with Sherlock's talented tongue tracing up and down the veins on the underside of his cock, he still managed to vociferate a few choice words.

"Tá mé ag dul a thiomána tú chomh crua nach féidir leat cuimhneamh do ainm."* The criminal babbled in Irish, his accent sounding perfectly at home in the lilting spirants. In response, Sherlock drew back, releasing Jim's aching erection with a wet popping noise.

"Promises, promises," he teased, lips brushing the very tip of the criminal's head. Lowering his mouth, Sherlock hollowed his cheeks and sucked just hard enough to cross the threshold into pleasure-laced pain. Satisfied at Moriarty's fall into silence, he continued the motion for a few moments before taking the man completely into his throat, allowing the swollen head to bump up against his pharynx. He hummed in appreciation around the shaft in his mouth; Jim did seem to fit him so perfectly in more than just intellect. Lost in the motion of pulling back and sliding forward, practically worshipping the man beneath him, Sherlock nearly missed Moriarty's next round of stimulating dialogue.

"Agora está mostrando. Apresuraron-se e me foder xa, detective."* Was that Galician? And Moriarty called  **him**  a show-off. In response, he began to increase his tempo, planning on driving every remaining clever word out of his partner. Jim had absolutely no intention of relinquishing, and Sherlock managed to choke back a groan of surprise as Jim's pianist's fingers wrapped themselves in his dark curls and tugged.

"Zdá se, že je třeba připomenout, kdo má na starosti tu, láska." Czech, something in the back of his mind whispered. Then there was no more time for any coherent thought as Jim twisted those perfidious digits in his hair, forcing Sherlock all the way back down to the base of his throbbing erection.

The detective swore that he could feel Jim's heartbeat against his tongue, throbbing in time with the criminal's thrusts into his mouth. God, Moriarty was positively fucking his throat, and it felt amazing. Blue eyes fluttered closed, and the detective and watched the blue stars dance in the darkness behind them. Summoned by the lack of breath that was making him light headed, the points of light began to spin in time with Jim's thrusts. Sherlock started to moan against Moriarty's length, encouraging the other man along to his completion. Each thrust of that silken member hitting back of his mouth sent bolt of almost almost vexatious intensity shooting down through him, straight to his already pulsing groin.

There wasn't enough of this sensation in the whole world to satisfy him. Jim could fuck his throat until the detective died; he'd still perish begging for more. The adjournment of his own pleasure served to illuminate every sensation to almost unbearable heights. He was matched completely, in intellect and a passion he thought he had subdued long ago. Moriarty dragged it out of his subconscious to the forefront of his mind; allowing the sheer sensation to drown out everything else.

Just as suddenly as he had captured his head, Jim released him. Sherlock gave a disappointed gasp, opening cerulean eyes and casting a yearning gaze towards his partner. Stunned as Jim slid out from underneath him, Sherlock released a keening, throaty sound at the lack of contact.

"Impa~tient! I don't know how far you think that little trick was going to get you, detective, but you have a ways to go". Standing, the criminal rummaged around the top of the nightstand, finally procuring the bottle of lube he had been looking for. He smiled that diabolical mastermind smile down at Sherlock, and tossed the bottle to him before reclining back on the bed.

"I think you know what to do with that." Moriarty's purr was the perfect combination of sultry and threatening. A brief clicking noise echoed through the room as Sherlock flipped the top, but before he could do anything else Jim stopped him with a hiss.

"Forgetting something?" Jim's chestnut eyes fixed pointedly on his zip, and Sherlock felt a slight blush rise in his neck. After everything that the consulting criminal had done to him, it still made the taller man feel more than just physically denuded to undress in front of him. It was one thing tear clothing (or have it torn) off during a fit of passion, but the diminutive criminal did so love to watch him strip. A tilt of Moriarty's head and a quick quirk of an eyebrow let Sherlock know that this wasn't so much a request as a demand.

Almost shyly, Sherlock closed up the bottle again, tossing it on the mattress where it rolled to a stop against the consulting criminal's well sculpted calf. Funny that, the little things that you appreciate about a body not your own. Shaking off his momentary introspection and demureness, the violinist let his well trained fingers stroke down his chest, moaning softly to himself as they traced a path to his fly. If Jim wanted a show, then Jim got a show. Closing his eyes and rocking his hips, he pressed himself up against his palm as he faked fumbling with the button closure. A distinct groan from Jim encouraged him to crack open one eye and steal a glance down at the criminal sprawled on the bed.

Moriarty's gaze was so focused on the tantalizing v shape of Sherlock's hipbones that he didn't notice the detective observing him. His too-quick tongue darted out from parted pink lips, moistening them in lascivious anticipation. Noting his partner's appreciation, the taller man thrust into his palm again and Jim let out a sympathetic groan in time with the detective's. Unable to delay any longer, Sherlock finally let go of his ruse. Agile fingers quickly unbuttoned and pushing his jeans down, but left his pants intact. God. He hadn't realized how soaked with desire he was until his hand traced the outline of his cock through the wet, black fabric.

Evidently Jim had had enough of the floorshow, as he lunged up from his supine position on the bed to capture Sherlock's elegant fingers mid-motion, squeezing them tightly around the the taller man's length. The captive detective gasped and thrust into his own hand, seeking either more contact or relief from the man controlling him but receiving neither. Jim gave another almost painful contraction of his fingers before standing up on tiptoe to brush his lips against the curl of dark hair at his partner's temple.

"Now." Withdrawing his hand from their mutual grasp around the detective's tormented length, Jim resumed his sultry lounge on the bed. Obediently, Sherlock stripped off his last remaining article of clothing and followed, snatching up the bottle of lube from where it had landed on the hard mattress.

With familiar efficiency he flipped the lid, hovering over the consulting criminal as he coated his right hand and fingers with the slick substance. Jim looked unimpressed, and Sherlock moved up between his legs, spreading them with his left hand before using it to grasp Jim's still-leaking length. One, two, three deliciously slow pumps and he let the criminal go, laughing softly as Moriarty's hips involuntarily followed his hand when it withdrew.

"I've got something better for you," he rumbled, baritone thundering with desire. In one smooth motion he angled his face down between lean ivory thighs and took the criminal's full length in his mouth once again. Jim took in a sharp breath, surprise evident in his widened dark eyes. A satisfied chuckle died in Sherlock's throat as Moriarty quickly recovered, immediately picking up his rhythm from earlier as if they had never parted. Long pianist's fingers wound tightly back into the detective's dark curls, urging Sherlock to take him deeper, deeper, deeper still. Obliging, the taller man opened his throat completely to the criminal's lustful onslaught, swallowing in time as best he could with the other man's thrusts.

Jim's hips began to cant on their own accord as Sherlock's hot throat contracted around him again and again. God, he was so fucking close to the pinnacle. It couldn't happen yet. They still had so much further to go. He gave the black waves in his grasp a ferocious yank, reminding Sherlock of his remaining duties. In response that too-clever mouth relented in its assault on Jim's turgid length, slowing to a tolerable pace. The detective brought his left hand around to grasp the round curvature of Jim's ass, while the slicked right trailed an index finger up and down the criminal's cleft.

"Goddamnit Sherlock, you fucking tease. JUST FUCK ME ALREADY!" Jim roared, and the detective started, momentarily surprised by the sheer volume the smaller man could conjure when he wanted to make a point. Nodding slightly, his mouth still fastened to Moriarty's cock, he pushed further into the crevice, seeking out the tight ring of muscle that he knew was waiting for him. Instead, Sherlock found a different kind of ring, rubberized and protruding just slightly from the criminal's ass.

Startled, the consulting detective released Jim's cock from his mouth and shot an inquisitive glance up at the all too satisfied face of the man above him. Jim offered him a nonchalant shrug and imprudent grin in response.

"You're too predictable you know. It's been eight days. The longest you've ever gone before is seven and you barely made it to that," the criminal lilted, voice dark with satisfaction. "I've been waiting for you **all day**." Sherlock blinked in astonishment, thrown off guard by Jim's preparedness. Was he really all that easy to anticipate?

Jim must have read the question in his expression because the smaller man scoffed. "Of course you're calculable, you fucking addict. Now roll over and get your fix."

Half from astoundment and half from obedience, Sherlock slid out from between the criminal's legs. As he rolled onto his back Moriarty followed smoothly, resuming his place on top of the detective. One hand reached behind him, and with a great show of moans and contortions he pulled the toy free.

The detective used his already slicked hand to further lubricate his erection, stopping only when Moriarty gave him a satisfied nod. Violinist's fingers traced up and down the criminal's sides, trailing low across sharp hipbones before lacing themselves together in the small of the shorter man's back. Jim purred in response and grasped Sherlock by his cock, positioning the head at his entrance. In one perfectly choreographed motion the consulting criminal settled himself fully on the taller man's length, spreading his legs and twisting his hips just so to push Sherlock's tip against the taut bundle of nerves burning inside him.

Jim arched his back and cried out as his partner pushed up against him, seeking out that same exquisite spot again and again. Matching thrust for thrust, Moriarty began to contract himself around the consulting detective's length, holding him in a viselike grip for just a second each time the detective tried to pull back to gain leverage.

"Non mi fermerò fino a quando non si è completamente annullata."* he singsonged in Italian, knowing that the words would be enough to push Sherlock right up to the edge of orgasm. Smiling his best feral smile, he pulled himself up and nearly off the detective's length before pushing himself all the way back down, and Sherlock roared, the untamed sound tearing its way free from that elegant throat. The consulting criminal laughed in satisfaction as he repeated the motion again, causing violent tremors to course through the lean frame beneath him.

Sherlock could feel the rough fibers of the cheap bedspread grinding into his back as Moriarty mercilessly rode him. The lean sleuth was no longer aware of what sounds in the room were uttered by him, and which came from the writhing man atop him. He felt a tightening in his abdomen; a familiar pressure building at the base of his spine. Holding back was no longer an option; the edge of the cliff was upon him and his body desperately craved the fall into orgasmic bliss.

Strong hands gripped the smaller man's hips, holding him down as Sherlock began returning the rhythm, pushing himself against Moriarty's prostate again and again. There was no elegance, no romance, no conscious thought of any kind behind their dance. They both lived for the hunger, the deep need to feel something other than boredom and ennui. Sherlock released his grip on one side of the criminal's waist and wrapped his fingers around Jim's length, pumping him in time with their frantic dynamics. Finally, his ministrations pulled the consulting criminal up to the cliff's edge with him.

"God. SHERLOCK. Aaah! Fuck... Fuck me. Just. mmmh... Like. oooh. That." Jim moaned between every word, voice raw with overuse and desire. He kept pushing himself down against the detective's arousal, squeezing and caressing with every muscle inside him; thin hands holding sharp hips down to the mattress so Sherlock couldn't thrust back. True to his word, Moriarty was fucking him completely senseless. Hazily, he became aware of a sound echoing through the room. It took him a moment to realize that it was his own voice, chanting Jim's name over and over like an invocation.

"James... James..." every breath out tore the madman's proper name from his lips. Each whisper of his full name set the smaller man's hips to involuntary shuddering. In return, Sherlock closed his eyes and arched his head back against the pillows. It was almost too much, the sheer sensual helplessness he felt under Moriarty's ministrations. It took the last vestiges of his concentration to keep working the villain's thickened length in his long fingers.

Black eyes cast downward to the man beneath him, admiring his work. Sherlock, undone. Those intense blue eyes were closed in absolute bliss, lips red and wanton, parted slightly as he gasped out words that were no longer under his conscious control. The detective's was head thrown back, marble pillar neck exposed completely in a gesture of utter surrender. Black waves of hair haloed his face; framing those glorious cheekbones in shadow. It was too perfect for words and Moriarty finally felt himself come undone as well. Knowing that he could make that brilliant mind completely shut down was the ultimate aphrodisiac, the final piece in the puzzle to unlocking his full desire.

The criminal turned over control of his hips to his libido, relinquishing conscious thought in favor of pure sensation. A few quickened thrusts down onto the detective below him were just enough, and he could feel Sherlock's hips begin to jerk violently against his restraining hands.

"Oh god, Jim," the thunderous baritone echoed off every surface in the room; Moriarty could feel it vibrating in his chest. "So close. Please, Jim. Pleeeeeease..." The elongated moan reverberating from those fine lips shot a line of fire from his abdomen to his groin, and he had just enough presence of mind to give Sherlock permission before finally toppling over the edge.

"Come for me, detective," he groaned, as his body convulsed and his vision washed away on a torrent of white. He could feel Sherlock oscillating wildly beneath him, cock spasming as Moriarty's orgasm brought the taller man to his completion.

As the man atop him came, Sherlock was aware of the overwhelming pressure around him, the criminal's ferocious groans ringing in his ears, his sharp fingernails digging into his hips pinning them to the mattress. As Jim came with a strangled cry, Sherlock felt himself overcome with sensation, lost completely in the crushing heat pulsing around him; his partner's warm fluid pulsing over his fingers. One final spasm of the smaller man's hips and Sherlock toppled into orgasm. Head spinning, chest heaving, the detective wrapped his arms around Moriarty's waist and held on for dear life, afraid the wave wracking through him would wash away everything that he was.

Breathless and spent, Jim toppled over, resting his cheek against Sherlock's chest. A smile crossed his lips as he listened to the hammering heartbeat beneath him. To his count, it was just shy of 120 beats per minute. Moriarty allowed himself a genuine smile in the quiet of the post-coital calm. Sherlock's senses returned at a leisurely pace, and he raked his long fingers through the consulting criminal's short dark hair in a rare gesture of affection.

"Jim, I do believe you've rendered me completely useless." Sherlock gave a slight chuckle, seeming amused with himself for making such an obvious deduction about his current state.

"Shut up, Sherly. As long as you've got that fine cock of yours you'll always be useful," the criminal retorted. Stretching, he removed himself from Sherlock and rolled over, fishing underneath the pillows at the head of the bed, coming up with a black and silver cigarette case and matching lighter.

"I could murder a smoke," he purred, taking out two and lighting them together before handing one off to the detective. His partner accepted with gracious fingers and inhaled, savoring the mingled taste of burned tobacco and Moriarty on his lips.

"You're going to be the death of me." The made an elegant gesture with his lit cigarette, as if to imply that his occasional smoking would be what eventually killed him.

"Undoubtedly." Jim flashed him a wicked and unreadable grin, and Sherlock narrowed his blue eyes, responding to the taunt with a flat glare.

Suddenly, there was a frantic burst of vibrations from the floor near the bed. Sherlock leaned off the side and scooped up his discarded jeans, fishing out his mobile from one of the pockets. He flicked it on, and stared at the screen in disbelief. 14 missed calls, 27 texts. All from John.

As Sherlock bent down to grab his phone, Jim fished underneath the pillows for his own. The damnable phone was never out of arm's reach; crime never slept, or something like that. As he glanced at the screen, his dark eyes widened in true surprise. He glanced over at Sherlock, who glared at him with a murderous rage glowing in his cerulean eyes.

"What. Have. You. Done?" the detective barked, thrusting his phone in his partner's general direction. "Explain this." Eyeing the list of missed calls and texts, Jim tried on his sweetest smile along with his very best set of doe eyes.

"Welllllll, darling. It, ah.. haha. It looks like I  **completely**  forgot to take the auto-send function off that batch of pictures I showed you earlier." Jim gave him a sheepish smile as he handed his phone over to Sherlock. Sure enough, the set of blackmail photos was marked as sent to a contact named "Pet Watson, MD". Sherlock stared at the phone in disbelief, allowing his own mobile to slip from his fingers.

"Wh... what?" The stunned look on his detective's face was absolutely priceless. Jim thought he had never seen those intense blue eyes open quite so wide.

"I was distracted. But the long and short of it is that John has the pictures, dear."

"All of them?" Sherlock's throat convulsed as he swallowed, turning the idea over and over in his mind. John. With pictures of him and Moriarty.

"Oh yes." Moriarty graced him with a small, satisfied smile and a nod.

"You ABSOLUTE FUCK!" The detective lunged at his partner, but Moriarty rolled off the bed with catlike grace, taking himself out of the taller man's reach, snatching up Sherlock's mobile as he went. He let his fingers caress the screen, scrolling though John's texts, reading them aloud in his best imitation of the good doctor.

_Sherlock, what the fuck. - JW_

_Seriously! Is this some kind of joke? - JW_

_Did you piss off Mycroft? Is this some sort of photoshopped revenge thing? - JW_

_Sherlock, you're not answering. - JW_

_Pick up your phone. - JW_

_Answer me, damnit! - JW_

_Are you ok? Have you been kidnapped? - JW_

_Ok, now I KNOW you're not OK because if you were, you would have told me how utterly stupid that last message was. - JW_

_Sherlock. - JW_

_If I don't hear from you in another hour, I'm calling Lestrade. - JW_

_Half an hour now, Sherlock. Fucking call me! - JW_

_Oh fuck... this is for real, isn't it? - JW_

_Not the kidnapping, I mean. But you. And him. - JW_

_SHERLOCK WHAT THE LITERAL FUCK IS GOING ON? - JW_

The last one had Moriarty doubled over in hysterical laughter, and to his surprise Sherlock chuckled some too.

"He's quite creative, isn't he," the criminal mastermind giggled. "Good at swearing. There are 13 more of these, and they're priceless!" Jim's deft fingers flew over the screen. "The things they teach men in the Queen's Army! There. I've got them now. I'm going to print them and have them framed." Sherlock scowled, jumping off the bed and snatching his mobile back from the diminutive madman. Glancing at the screen, his look of annoyed amusement shifted to pure shock.

"Shit! I need to call him NOW. I've got six minutes left before he dials Lestrad."

"You think he'd do it?"

"Just to punish me," the detective gave a warm smile at the thought. Jim was his ultimate challenge, but his good doctor also knew how to push his buttons pretty damn well. Holding one finger to his lips in a silencing gesture, he dialed his flatmate. The phone rang for what seemed like an eternity, with John finally picking up on the very last ring before voicemail. Before Sherlock could say anything, the ex-soldier snapped at him in his best Captain's voice.

"Sherlock. It's time for you to come home now." The detective felt a distinct blush creep up his neck, highlighting his cheeks. Observing him closely, Moriarty gave the taller man a feral grin.

"Ah. Yes. I will. John, I..." his flatmate's clipped voice cut Sherlock off abruptly.

"No explanations. No excuses. Get here, now." A particularly long silence rang between the two men, as a look of genuine concern knitted his brow. This really was as bad as it seemed. John finally broke the silence.

"And Sherlock?"

"Yes?" He was surprised at how small his voice sounded, despite being so much deeper than the doctor's.

"Since you seem to love riding crops so very much, I've gone and found yours. Be prepared. And tell Jim he won't be seeing you again for awhile. I'm going to have you otherwise occupied." And with that, John ended the call. Breathless, Sherlock turned in complete surprise to Moriarty, who positively vibrated with suppressed laughter. Once the call ended, he stopped holding back, giggling until he was left breathless and gasping.

"Oh! We got you good, didn't we darling? You're right. Your doctor IS fun. That empathy of his hides a not completely vacant mind." Jim's smile was almost impossibly self-satisfied.

"He... he knows about us?"

"Mmh. Yes. Has for a while, actually. And I'm quite certain it sounds like he's going to punish you like he just found out, though." Moriarty quirked a dark eyebrow in mock concern, pursing his lips into a faux pout.

"You. And John. Conspired to..." Sherlock stuttered, uncertain of what exactly his best friend and his arch enemy were plotting.

"Share you? Trick you? Something like that. But I guess what it really comes down to is I wouldn't give you up, and dear Doctor Watson made a demand of me. Of me!" Jim rolled his eyes in mock aggravation.

"The nerve! Anyway, it turns out that the good doctor is more than willing to share his toys, as long as he gets some benefit from it as well. Good thing he really seems to enjoy dirty pictures." Sherlock's jaw simply dropped as stood frozen in place, stunned and nearly unable to process the information at hand. Sliding up next to him, Moriarty stood on tiptoe and let his too-clever mouth brush up against Sherlock's neck.

"And I don't mind sharing, for now. You do so need something to keep you occupied when I'm not around. But do be careful not to get too attached, Sherlock dear. In the end, as much as he tries to claim you, both you and your toy soldier know you really belong to me."

And with that, he gave Sherlock a playful swat on the rear, before dancing off into the bathroom.

"You may want to hurry, love! It doesn't sound like your dear doctor has much patience left to spare for your tardiness. I suggest running, if you can," the madman lilted from the bathroom. As Sherlock scrambled about the room, gathering up his clothing and tossing it on haphazardly. Noting the tatters of his T-shirt, he snatched Jim's and threw it on. It was too small for him, and it clung obscenely to the lines of his torso. He grumbled, until he realized that it would drive John wild.

FUCK. Moriarty did that on purpose, didn't he? Cut up his shirt and left him with one too small, just to get John's blood up. Sherlock sighed to himself, tossing on his jacket and shoes before bolting out the door. It would take some time to wrap his mind around this strange arrangement. Moriarty alone was enough to bring him to the brink of insanity, he was uncertain on how to handle the tag team of his favorite criminal and favorite doctor.

The only thing he was certain of was that he'd enjoy every bloody complicated minute.

_**The End!...?** _

* * *

_**And now for something completely different! Author's notes:** _

_**1\. Please feel free to review, comment, favorite, or ignore the story. Whatever makes you content. I'm in this for you, dear reader. Well actually, Vivi made me do it, but just believe my pretty lie, ok? Reviews and favorites will be saved in a special box in the freezer where I keep all my feelings. Flames are absolutely welcome; but please note that you will not offend or hurt me in any way. What you will do is provide me with a great entertainment opportunity for my next gathering of friends, where we will pass your note around and read it in funny voices as we get thoroughly smashed. We have a drinking game we play to hate mail. So if you want to make us happy and tipsy, please do drop me some mad hostility. : )** _

_**2\. This fic was originally written as a request / favor to my dear long term platonic smut partner Vivi Vivacious.  She demanded that I post this for everyone's enjoyment. So, in short, I take no responsibility for this at all. Love it or hate it, it all goes to Vivi. You should go yell at her. I haven't publicly posted anything since the days long past when Ronin Warriors / Yoroiden Samurai Troopers slash was all the rage. (Holla if you represent!) So Vivi's entirely at fault for me coming out of the fanfic-closet for the first time in a decade or more.** _

_**Vivi was also my beta, but really she's more of a grammar Dalek. If you notice that I only occasionally slip into the passive voice you have her to thank for that. : ) She also is responsible for axing my excessive use of adverbs. However, even she can't make me give up my crown as queen of the comma splice.** _

_**3\. Notes on the foreign language parts of the story: I certainly don't speak multiple languages; I'm still experimenting with English and it's my native tongue! But Moriarty would, and I've always imagined Sherlock having a bit of a language kink. Here comes Google Translate to save the day! I know nothing about grammar, syntax, or any of the other bits that actually make the words make sense, so please forgive me if I've offended. And please! If you're fluent, by all means let me know how to better phrase it and I'll edit the story, credit you, and shower you with much deserved praise.** _

_**For the curious, here are the English sentences I ran through the translator to come up with the very yummy sounding (but probably incorrect) phrases.** _

_***French - What's next Sherlock? Do hurry. My patience has its limits.** _

_***Irish - I'm going to ride you so hard that you cannot remember your name.** _

_***Galacian - Now you're just showing off. Hurry up and fuck me already, detective.** _

_***Czech - It seems you need to be reminded who is in charge here, love.** _

_***Italian - I won't stop until you are completely undone.** _

_**Ta dears, and thanks for reading!** _

_**Mazi** _


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